She hates the cold. He understands, he'd grown up in warm, humid settings. She'd blossomed in more temperate areas, soft summers and mild winters. This is the reason he gives when, in the frozen landscape of the southernmost region of the planet, she clings to him like a child to her favorite blanket.

"It's freezing," she mutters, face on his chest. "I thought it was supposed to get warmer, the further south you go."

He nods, smoothing a hand over her back and ignoring the frostbitten toes on his calf. "It does. To a certain point." And this becomes a brief geography lesson, him explaining that temperature is highest at the equator, the line that divides the planet in half, separating the north from the south. The further away you go, in either direction, the colder it becomes. She is tired, he can see it in her eyes, but she listens, pays attention to his every word.

"We should go somewhere warm next," she says, as if they were planning a vacation, just the two of them, not the movement of an entire military force.

"Warmer places have bugs. And venomous animals. And poisonous plants."

"At least I'll die warm," she retorts and he doesn't stop himself from smiling at how petulant she sounds.

Later, when she is allowing them to get to know her better, she will say that home for her has always been the people who surround her. She has never identified with four walls, never known the pull of returning to a familiar place. She will say it bluntly and he will not be able to ignore the way her eyes flit to him first. But right now they are in his bed, and he can still pretend that she is only here for creature comforts. Tonight she is cold. Tomorrow she might seek out other things his body can offer. It's less messy that way, less complicated, to pretend that all they are to each other is replicable bodies.

"You think too much," she chides, softly kissing his cheek.

"You learned the ways of the Force? Mind reading is the way of the darkside, you know?"

"I wouldn't have to read your mind, even if I could."

"Why not?"

She grabs his hand, the one not settled on the curve of her back. "Because you tap your fingers when you're thinking."

She smiles, soft and genuine and rare (though maybe less rare recently) and he thinks maybe, just maybe, he could grow to like the cold.

Many believed that with the death of Emperor Sidious (formerly Chancellor Palpatine) the Empire would fall. The rebellion that had brought him down and destroyed his best weapon (twice) thought of the Empire as a snake, remove the head and the body dies. Or perhaps was even less dignified, more like a chicken, remove the head and the body runs around aimlessly for a time before finally collapsing, its remains ready to be fed upon by vultures. This is why many countries, cities, and peasant villages celebrated for days after the explosions, the remains of the Emperor's wasted legacy, decorated the sky.

The Empire was not a snake. Some would call it a hydra, remove one head, another two would grow in its place. Others would say phoenix, perhaps falling once, but rising up again stronger than before.

It doesn't matter what it was compared to. The death of an old men, two old men, was not the death of the Empire. There were still many other figures, many other cogs in the machine, who did not want to release their power. This is why many more did not celebrate, why many more were surprised into silence.

District Administrator Brisen had been in charge of a small district of no consequence when the Emperor fell. The country of Belderone, considered an outer rim territory because its lack of involvement in world politics, had been suspected of having great fuel reserves. The Empire took several mining districts, just like the one currently held by Brisen, but few yielded any real results. Having done little to draw attention to himself, not being particularly terrible nor particularly distinguished, he managed to hold the small space even during the brief periods of Republic rule in the country. He is not well liked by the laypeople, generally forgotten or avoided. He lives comfortably, living off the sweat of others without inflicting the cruelty upon them directly. He caused no trouble for anyone and no one caused trouble for him. It was a lovely arrangement.

This is why he is surprised when one unassuming day the door to his study opens and a visitor walks in, fully dressed in First Order attire. He gives a name, one that Brisen quickly forgets, and sits at his desk.

"No need to be formal, Administrator," the man smiles as Brisen sits up a little straighter and tries to fix his coat. It is not his First Order uniform, most days he did not bother with all the layers, but at least it's black. "The Order simply wants to make sure you are aware of the situation."

"Situation?"

"Yes sir. As you must know, a sympathizer leads the Belderonian Council. Though they claim to remain neutral, we do have evidence that the council is giving aid to the Resistance."

"I… yes, of course I am aware."

The man's smile grows and Brisen begins to regret not remembering his name. The simple cut and bareness of his uniform suggest low rank, but his comfortableness, his certainty, makes Brisen feel as if he is talking to a superior. "Of course we understand why you could not take action. We didn't leave you with a battalion, but we would appreciate any intel you have managed to acquire."

"Intel? Yes, yes, intel. Give me a moment…Of course I've…" Brisen, with sweat around his neck and brow, begins to shuffle through his desk, sending glances at old files and papers. "…. Kept track of the local…committees. …Forgive me. This might take some time, tech doesn't work as well here. We've had to resort to organizing the old way."

"Of course. Of course, please take your time. We already have a small base set up near the… I believe it's called the Nial River?" After a moment Brisen looks up to see the man's expectant look and nods quickly. "Good. Yes, a very secure spot. Excellent tree cover, and the elevated position allows us to see attacks from all sides."

Brisen hands over whatever old files he could find. There are some reports about the overall structure of some buildings, the houses of some high ranking officials and of course the parliament house, in addition to some details of defense. Most of them are dated, the information a few years old at the very least, but the unnamed man only takes them in his hands, glances them over and smiles again. "Oh, thank you so much. The Order will remember your contribution."

The man leaves and Brisen thinks the matter is done. He does not hear word from anyone about any campaigns against the standing regime, and decides that it is better that way, better to not know if the First Order failed or succeeded. Power had changed hands many times in the last few decades, it never posed a problem for him. He wants to forget him, the smiling, nameless man, but it is difficult. A week goes by and he decides their mission was either a success or a failure and decides to wash his hands of it.

The man returns the next day. It is nearly nightfall when Nandler, his groundskeeper, comes into his sitting room and announces that a guest has arrived. Brisen is already in his nightclothes, having expected little else from the day. Perhaps he would just enjoy a drink and watch a poor resolution holovid. Perhaps he would send the errand boy to fetch another form of entertainment. But then there is Nandler in the threshold with a worried look on his blunt, weather worn features and Brisen knows there is no rest for him tonight.

Again the man is smiling. He does not reintroduce himself, instead sitting down and asking, politely, for a meal.

"It isn't much, but I'm sure my cook can prepare a plate for you." Perhaps, the quicker the man ate, the quicker he could be out of their hair.

"Thank you, so much." The man gives a mockery of a bow, mimicking movement made by Nandler before he left the room. The implications are clear. Brisen had not been occupying this place, this useless place, as an asset of the Order. He'd been using it as a place to play king.

The man requests a chance to wash up and Brisen gives him directions to the fresher. He waits for him in the dining hall and regrets not showing him personally, or sending someone else to do it for him. This man could snooping through halls now, peaking in rooms. He counts the ticks and tocks of a nearby clock until he can hear the approaching footsteps. The man bursts in, looking largely unchanged in his immaculate uniform, and takes a seat. There is a silence, tense to Brisen, which hangs in the air as they wait for their food to be served.

"It really gives you an appetite, doesn't it? Getting all the way up here in the goonies. How can you stand it?"

"I just- oh, here's dinner."

Brisen attempts to tuck in the simple meal, a vegetable soup with cheese sandwiches served on the side, in the hopes that it will keep the man from talking. The man, however, takes a few prim bites of his food and leaves the rest largely ignored. Between thick bites, Brisen responds to his questions about the estate, small but luxurious compared to the houses of the peasants who lived there, and how he had been occupying his time since being stationed there.

"Must be hard up here, all by yourself. No support. How do the peasantry take to your authority?"

"Oh, it is difficult. Hard to keep so many in line. They do perform well, if given proper instruction and motivation."

"And what tasks have you set them to?"

Brisen pauses, the spoon stopping directly before his waiting mouth. What had he done? Really, nothing. The mines that the Empire had tried to harvest from were largely untouched, having gone dry years ago. People usually went about their daily lives with little intervention from Brisen, who only made the occasional appearance to settle disputes and collect taxes. It's a farming village, though the land is barely fertile at the best of times. The man does not wait for a response, instead happily moving onto the next question.

"Must be lonely up here. We didn't leave you with any… intelligent life

"Yes, it's just me here. Me and a few… assistants, I suppose you could call them. From the lay people."

Though a wine had been served with their dinner, the guest seemed to take no interest in it. He drank water, though, and his cup was nearly empty by now. Brisen waved his maid, Winna, to the table to refill their glasses. Though he had already downed a rather large glass of the red wine, Brisen this time opted for water. Something about this questioning made him feel as if he needed his wits about him.

"Is she one of your… assistants?" The man leaned back in his seat to take her in, the middle aged woman who was still very attractive. Winna had worked for Brisen since her early teens. This has spared her from more laborious work that many of her peers had been subjected to, had given her better living arrangements. She dressed modestly, a long skirt and a loose fitting shirt, and the dirty blonde hair was pinned at the nape of her neck. Her face was kind and round and had mostly been spared from premature age, though her hands, feet, and knees, were often swollen and sore.

"Yes…" Brisen did not know how to address him. Sir, Commander, Captain? The sentence lay awkward and unfinished in the air.

"She's lovely."

The woman stiffened. Water poured from the pitcher in her hands, but the sudden tension in her body made it nearly slosh from Brisen's glass. He cursed her, quietly, and looked up again. If this man wanted Winna, he could have her. Brisen would appreciate the distraction and maybe the reminder of what her life could be, if Brisen took it upon himself to turn her out, would stop her from cutting corners on the house work.

She looks at Brisen's nearly empty bowl, then at the guest's, which is nearly full. "Shall I bring out the second course, my lord?"

"My lord?" the guest laughs and Brisen cringes. It is a title they call him by here, though it was not his in any official capacity. It inspired loyalty, it had a nice sound, he doesn't know what possessed him to tell these idiots to call him my lord. He only knows that right now he regrets it because their guests looks so amused.

"It's, it's nothing?"

"No, No, you're right. My lord. These people need to know who's in charge. 'My lord.' I like it."

Winna brings out the second course and Brisen manages to stuff down three bites of too tough meat. If the guest notices his sudden change in appetite, he does not mention it, still just blissfully asking questions and ignoring any silence. The last course is a cake, the man's eyes widen when, this time, the cook carts it in on a small stand. It is a small thing, barely any decoration outside of a few flowers and dabs of icing, but the old man looks proud.

"That will be all, Draren," Brisen prompts when it looks as if the old fool is going to linger. He had wanted to see the man's reaction when he took the first bite of cake, but takes the hint and leaves the room.

In the kitchen, Winna is already tending to the dishes from the men's meal. Her shirt sleeves are tugged past her elbow to avoid soaking them in the hot, soapy water. Draren turns his attention to the leftovers. There was still soup left in the pot, a few bits of overpriced meat still in the pan. The fact that their uninvited guest barely ate meant that the three house servants would still be able to split the leftovers for a decent meal.

"You think the lord's in trouble?" Winna asked, scrubbing a stain of sauce from the side of a bowl.

"What makes you think that?" He returns, moving prepare the bowls for their meal. Nandler gets the largest bit of meat, he needs the protein for his field work, but Draren makes sure more beans are put in Winna's soup. When the kitchen is clean, when the dishes are put away, Draren, Winna, and Nandler will sit down and eat together. They will give the usual discussion about their day, the problems they encountered in their tasks. They will tell small jokes and try to shake their unease.

"That man. He just seems odd."

"What'd he say his name was?"

"Matrius."

"Hmm." Draren made a noise of pretend contemplation. The name meant nothing to him. All he knew about the man was that he seemed to have the appetite of a small child and would not cease talking.

Winna hesitated, shaking a bowl dry before placing it on the drying rack. "I think the lord means to give him to me tonight."

There was a long silence shared between them. Draren has been Brisen's cook for decades, he was already a permanent fixture in the home when Winna was brought through the threshold. After so long together he had come to care for her, in the way that a man cares for his daughter. She was pretty then, is lovely now, but what is most important is her kindness. Winna is a gentle creature, giving and good to nearly everyone she meets.

Draren grunts and makes a point of cutting the sandwiches into perfect triangles. He is about to open his mouth, about to try to something that may comfort her, but there is a knock on the backdoor and he doesn't have a chance. Winna, grateful for the distraction, wipes her hands on her apron and goes to the door, cracking it open to peer at the night time visitor and then opening it entirely, a large smile gracing her soft features.

Draren did not like this visitor, though his presence was something he was well familiar with. The figure was small in stature, mid height and thickly bundled against the cool spring air in layers of old and well-worn clothes. The boy, who they affectionately called Mouse, was selected by Brisen to perform errands. Little things, like moving messages and bringing supplies back to the home. He always followed instructions to the letter, never once gave a moment of protest or trouble. And while Draren recognized the young boy as an asset to the house, he could not bring himself to trust him. Because he had never seen Mouse's face. He had never been able to really look him in the eyes and gauge the strength of his character. He had never seen his face when he lied or told the truth, didn't know if the features changed. He had never heard his voice.

The problem with Mouse was that his face was covered in layers and layers of tattered clothes and bandages. And Draren could not bring himself to trust a man whose very identity had to be kept secret.

Mouse stays outside the door, reaching into the deep pockets of his coat and pulling out a pad. In rushed handwriting, he quickly scrawls a note on the brown, wrinkled pages and hands it to Winna.

Draren watches as her well trained eyes take in the chicken scratch lettering. It had taken her a long time to be able to decipher his handwriting, and now she was the authority on communicating with him. Less complicated things he could communicate with his hands or body language, but questions were difficult.

"He doesn't need anything tonight, I don't think. But I do have a list of things I need from the market tomorrow. Do you mind if I write it here?" Mouse shakes his head in the negative and she writes down a long lists of items for the boy. Her letters are neater, but in the large, strained fashion of a child. Her schooling had been cut short, but she could still read and write at a passing level. "I'll make sure to ask for the money for it in the morning ok?" Mouse nods and she hands the pad back to him, Mouse nods firmly, stepping away from the light that spills from the threshold. He is about to disappear into the night, wherever he escapes to when he's not working for the household, but Winna takes one step out of the house and takes his arm.

"It might rain tonight. You should stay here."

The boy shakes his head.

"Please. Not in the house if you don't want to, but at least the barn."

Mouse looks at the hand on his arm and nods, tugging the jacket closer to him. Winna releases him and smiles with relief. "I can bring you food later. And some blankets."

The boy shakes his head and makes a motion with his hand, moving his wrist while also pointing with his finger. Even Draren, who tried to avoid him, recognizes this sign, he'll be back. He nods to Winna, then to Draren, and makes the walk to the barn.

"You know Nandler hates it when he sleeps in there." Draren chides.

"He doesn't do any harm," Winna frowns, returning to her dishes.

"You that now, but you shouldn't get too comfortable with him. Boys like him, no family, no history. He could b-"

"Mouse is a good boy. He's only ever done what he's told."

"Mouse? You hear that? What kind of name is Mouse? And how come he's never let us see is face?"

"I think he has a scar. Or something wrong with his face, so he doesn't want us to see him." She gives a long, lingering look to the door and Draren knows she is thinking of him with sympathy and sadness, making due in the itchy, drafty barn. "I feel sorry for him."

"Well I feel sorry for the cows that have to put up with him tonight." He finishes reproportioning the food to make sure there is some to give to the newcomer and takes off his apron, preparing to go collect the last of their party. Nandler might still be putting away his tools in the shed. "And I'm not giving the little bastard any meat."

"He can have mine. I'm not really hungry."

Draren walks away, grunting in the negative, and Winna allows herself to smile. The smile slips from her face when the door to the kitchen swings open and she sees the man, Matrius, step into the room. He is young, she realizes, when he comes closer to her, his face still round and fresh and unmarred by age.

"I don't think Brisen would object if I decided to have you in this very kitchen. Do you?"

She shakes her head, holding the washcloth in her fists. She will ask him to leave her untouched. He might say no, but he also might be kind and leave her be.

"I don't want you."

Relief fills her and she relaxes against the counter. He takes a step closer into her personal space and, if she could, she would have taken a step in retreat. "I want to know about this household. And who knows better about the dirty laundry than the maid?"

Winna shakes her head, confused by his words. She doesn't recognize the expression. "You want to know about the… cleaning?"

The smile falls from the man's lips in a short display of annoyance. "No, woman. I want to know about your boss."

"Lord Brisen-"

"Alright, first and foremost, stop with the 'lord.' The man is no one's lord, not even you sorry lot. Second, whatever kind praises you were about to give that waste, save them. I don't care. I want to know if you've actually ever seen him do a day's work."

Winna, stunned into silence, merely shakes her head.

"Ever had strange visitors?"

"No sir," she speaks, shaking her head still and wetting her dry lips with her tongue. "No. Other than you."

He smirks at that, the grin a little more honest but also more chilling. "Alright. We're getting somewhere. How often are you with him?"

"Not often. He spends most of his time in his room or in his study."

"So he could be speaking with someone? Without you knowing?"

"Well… well yes. He could, I suppose, I… I don't really pay attention to-"

"Yes, yes I get it," Matrius casts a glance around the kitchen and sees the four separate platters on the counter. Four, but he had only counted three workers in the house. "Dinner party?"

Winna nods eagerly, "We share a meal. After all the day's tasks are done, of course."

"Yes. Of course. Who's the fourth?"

"Beg pardon?"

Matrius points to the fourth platter. "You, the old man, and the oaf. That makes three. Who's the fourth?"

Winna's eyes cut at the door and Matrius follows the motion. "It's the errand boy, sir. His name is Mouse. What I mean to say is that we call him Mouse, it's probably not his proper name. But he doesn't usually stay here and if he does it's in the barn."

"Is he in the barn now?" Matrius asks, stepping past her to look outside the window that rests just above the sink. The hot water gets on his jacket, he doesn't seem to care. The rain, just a gentle patter on the roof, has already begun.

Winna swallows hard as his eyes light up, finally making out the old wooden structure in the dark night. He turns over his shoulder and looks at her, face more stern. "Well?"

"Yes, he is."

He nods, backing away and looking around the space one more time, as if looking for more information. Satisfied, he turns his attention back to Winna. "Anyone else I should know about?"

She shakes her head.

He lets his false smile find his face again and reaches for her hand. "You've been a great help dear. I will remember this later, understand?"

She doesn't but she nods all the same. And as he makes his exit, Nandler and Draren are just returning, standing aside so that he may pass through the threshold first and then coming into the kitchen. Nandler immediately turns to the food, taking his platter to the dining hall. He'll be halfway done before either Draren or Winna join him. Draren is looking at her intently, a frown forming on his aging features, but Winna ignores him, instead returning to the dishes.

"I'll be out in a moment."

He glares at the door, at the young man who has already left the room, and takes her arm. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," she nods, trying to shake off her unease. Matrius, he had barely touched her but she still felt…

"Did he try anything?"

"No. No, he just wanted to talk." She turns the older man and removes her arm from his grip. "Go eat. I'll be out in a moment."

Draren looks hesitant, but he obeys all the same. And after he leaves the room Winna allows herself to sag against the counter and breathe deeply. She only has a few moments of peace, of solitude, before there is a knock on the backdoor. Mouse has returned for his dinner.

She opens the door, other hand holding his platter. It'll be wet by the time he gets it back to the barn.

"Eat with us tonight," she demands, opening the door wider to allow him in.

Mouse shakes his head, neck craning forward to allow him a better look at her. Winna can feel his eyes on her face, the attention, and she knows that he is trying to decipher her expression. He reaches for his pad, scribbles a few words, and hands it to her.

You Ok?

She nods, sniffling. "Of course I am. Now, come in here."

Mouse shakes his head again, but steps inside of the house all the same. He is the same height as Winna and when they are standing next to each other she can see, in the cracks allowed by the bandages, his eyes. They are brown, thickly lashed.

His hands are bound in gloves and when he reaches out, Winna almost pulls away. But she allows him to take the plate from her hand while his other hand goes to her shoulder and squeezes. Mouse rarely allows anyone to touch him, Winna is the only person in the house who he allows casual contact from and even that is sparse. One time Nandler grabbed him by the scruff of his neck to shake him, punishment for spooking him, and returned to the house with a black eye and busted lip. Brisen thought it was amusing, that such a small boy could do such damage to the larger man, but Nandler had carried around anger and humiliation long after the physical damage healed and Draren's opinion of the boy seemed to sour further. If touching Mouse is rare, then him touching other's is even rarer. Most of the touches Winna can think of are far from personal, nothing so intimate as a hug or even a handhold. But this is almost companionable, this simple contact, and Winna feels the warmth of friendship.

They maintain this odd eye contact and Mouse nods at her and Winna nods in return, reaffirming her earlier claim. She is fine.

Mouse squeezes her shoulder one more time and departs, making his way through the night back to the barn. And Winna curses herself internally, she had forgotten about the blankets. She prepares to call out to him, tell him to come back for a moment, but then the kitchen door swings open again and Nandler is telling her that something has gone wrong.

The man leaves Brisen immediately after dinner. He actually eats the entire piece of cake set before him, it is the only plate he cleaned. He is gone for ten minutes maybe and Brisen assumes that he is attempting to solicit Winna. She would offer him little trouble.

He goes to his study and is a little surprised when the man enters. Perhaps it was a quick affair?

"I'm afraid I must ask you to come with me, District Administrator Brisen."

This is the first time that the man has called him by his full, but ultimately insignificant, title. It makes his stomach drop and he immediately wishes that he had eaten less. "I'm sorry?"

"Would you like time to change into your uniform?" he responds but does not clarify his demand. There is a smile on his face as he casts a critical glance at Brisen's evening clothes. Brisen clutches his robe and wonders if his official uniform even still fits.

"What is going on?" He finally demands, when he finds his voice.

The man whose name he wishes he hadn't forgotten informs him that his presence has been requested.

"May I ask by whom?"

"The Intelligence Sect, Administrator. Transportation for you and your household has been arranged. We can leave immediately."

Brisen could hear the underlying meaning to the words 'we will be leaving Immediately.' It is night time. Navigation on the roads would not be impossible, but certainly easier in the day light. He swallows hard and stands. "Perhaps I should pack some things."

"That won't be necessary." The man gave a smile, an attempt, perhaps, at reassurance. It was over bright and forced, only adding to Brisen's obvious discomfort.

"Well. Alright then."

He was quickly escorted to a small carriage, black and nondescript. He sat across from the young official who was sent to collect him, the car otherwise empty despite the hint that his staff was joining them. With the curtain drawn he could not see outside, but one glance at his escort told him that peeking out the window was ill advised. The ride was silent and smooth and long, the weather mild. Under other circumstances he might have fallen asleep. But the man before him (who he was beginning to suspect was a bit more important than he'd assumed, if only he could remember his name) kept his hands pleasantly folded in his lap and a small revolver at his hip. It did not encourage napping.

If this man could return to him, then this means the Order had been successful. Maybe they just want to thank him for the intel he'd given a few days ago. Maybe…

Brisen tries to think positive thoughts and listen to the rainfall.

"He said there were four."

"Well we only have three here."

Winna had never seen Stormtroopers before. Heard many stories of them, soldiers completely covered from head to toe in armor carrying guns. She finds herself searching for their faces, for eyes behind the mask, but there is nothing but darkness. Draren remembers seeing them, once, in his youth. It was just before Brisen took over, the soldiers had only been present long enough to ensure that the District Administrator would be safe and that the lay people would cooperate.

"He said to check the barn."

Winna's eyes widened. "He left. After he got food. He left."

The two troopers turned to each other and one nodded. "I'll check the barn."

"Be quick about it. We have to get them to interrogation soon."

Other Stormtroopers were present in the house. They had spilled in only moments after Brisen left, each filling different rooms of the house and turning them upside down. Winna frowned, she would have to clean this up later.

"What's going on?" Nandler demanded. There was a stain on his shirt, Draren recognized his soup. There must have been a struggle getting him here, but he seemed more subdued now.

"No talking," was the short reply.

A few minutes later the trooper who was watching over them peeked out of the window, perhaps getting impatient. Even Nandler looked a little confused, as if collecting Mouse was taking a long time. Draren seemed to shift a bit on his feet, the left knee aching a bit.

"May I take a-"

"No talking."

The other trooper burst through the door carrying Mouse's limp body. Winna covered her mouth and tried to hold back a scream while the soldier deposited him, roughly on the couch.

"What happened GR8812?"

"Little bastard fought back. I had to stun him." The trooper reached for his helmet as if to take it off, but was quickly stopped by his partner.

"What are you doing? We're not supposed to take our helmets off."

"I think he gave me a concussion. Kriff I-"

"We don't have time. Get them in the carriage. You can visit the medbay when we get back to base."

So the one called GR8812 picked up Mouse again, while the other directed Winna, Draren, and Nandler out into the rain and into the carriage. GR8812 practically tossed Mouse into the back, still complaining of his head, and Winna tried to make sure that he didn't move too much on the bumpy road. She kept his head in her lap and, when he turned a bit to the side, Winna could see a stain of red blooming on the clothe on his temple.

"I think he's hurt." She turned to yell at the man at the wheel. "I think he's hurt. He's bleeding."

"Quiet back there!" his partner yelled, brandishing the gun from his hilt.

Nandler smirked and Winna glared at him. "What is so funny?"

"You shouldn't worry about him. His head's already bandaged."

A/N: So this is my reattempt at Chaos for Me. I Didn't like it as much when I reread the previous chapters, so this is redoing it. The plot will be largely the same but some things will change, like this: The first chapter. Hope you like this.